From East to West
by sparrowwitch
Summary: An Easterling, Mareke travelled to the West to seek the aid of the Elves when a prophetic dream showed her the complete destruction of her people in the War of the Ring. She meets the Dwarves of Erebor on their way to reclaim their homeland and recognizes the events as the start of the War. Mareke becomes part of the quest and finds that destiny has a way of writing itself.
1. Chapter 1

She travelled silently and with haste. The woods of this part of the world were filled with dangerous creatures, creatures of blood and wrath. A branch snapped in the distance. Eyes flashed in the darkness as she crouched to all fours, making herself a smaller target and giving herself more area to push off from if she needed to run. Slowing her breathing, she listened intently for any noise a threat might make.

She had been told stories about the dangers that lay in the West. The wild wolves of legend did not bother Mareke. Her forefathers tamed the wolves of the desert and made them into servants of the Voice, the kindly god who ruled Arda. Even though the time of living with the wolves had past, Mareke still felt a bond with them and though the Wargs howled throughout the night, she felt no fear. It was the Orcs she feared.

They were filthy creatures who delighted in the slaughter of all creatures. Their blood-lust did not halt even to spare their own kind. The Orcs of the Eastern wilds had become cannibals. When they caught nothing on a hunt, which was often due to the thunderous commotion of their heavy boots, they fought amongst themselves until one of them killed another. Then, mealtime began. Mareke was lucky to have managed to bypass all of the Orc dens during her travels.

Another branch crackled in the distance. With delicacy, she crept to the nearest tree and began to struggle up the length of it. Mareke barely clung to the vertically ridged bark of the pine tree as she reached for the lowest branch, careful not to make an abundance of noise. She crouched on the branch, careful not to catch the blades of her double scimitar on the tree. From her position, she waited in almost silence, the cadence of her breathing and the sedated whistle of the wind creating a small tune. Patience served her well as a gaggle of Dwarves scuttled beneath the boughs of her tree.

Several of them looked out of breath as they halted at the base of the trees. A Man dressed all in grey followed them and as they halted, he urged them angrily into the trees. They scurried up the trees as far as they could go without the boughs giving way. From the direction they came in, scrambled a small humanoid, childlike in his appearance. He glanced around tensely and then turned back to view those pursuing the group. An odd tremble moved his body and he grew rigid with fear. Without warning or any notice at all, he was pulled up into the trees just as the wolves caught up with the group.

These were no mere wolves, however, but Wargs. Mareke knew nothing of such monstrous breeds and marvelled at their size and ferocity as they jumped and snapped at the Dwarves. She thought about climbing down to aid the Dwarves in escaping and was indeed about the leap from the tree when a Warg caught up her scent, looked up, and growled something sinister in the foul language of evil beasts.

A howling came down from the hills and the Wargs looked back to see the moonlit skin of a pale Orc appearing through the dense foliage. He rode atop a Warg the colour of tarnished silver and he looked confident, as if he had won a battle of great significance. The Orc spoke in a tongue that Mareke recognized but did not understand. Then, a great commotion began as the Wargs pulled down the trees. Mareke was forced to jump from tree to tree as her tree began to topple. Along with the Dwarves, she became housed at last in a large pine tree with the Dwarves, the grey Man, and the child-creature.

Her hand shifted as the tree trembled and it touched a solid, conical object attached to the tree. She tugged at it and, after finally freeing it, felt the weight in her hand and then lobbed it at a Warg. It whined in surprised and looked up, baring its teeth at the Dwarves.

Mareke pulled another pine cone from the tree and shouted, "Grab these! They can be used to stun and harm the wolves down below." Fifteen heads turned towards Mareke. "Act now or we shall tumble down to the mercy of the wolves!" They exchanged looks with each other, deciding upon whether or not the stranger in their midst was trustworthy or not but the Man had already decided. A light sprung from where he perched and he tossed a pine cone down to Mareke. She nearly dropped it for it was bright with fire which stung and bit her. Gathering her wits, she threw the flaming projectile at the Wargs, hitting one and scattering the others.

Within moments, fire rained down upon the Wargs and their riders. The Orc with skin like polished sea pearls looked at the Dwarves with dismay and irascibility. Despite their efforts, the Wargs knocked the tree down and without another tree to jump to for safety, the Dwarves and their company were left to hang over the edge of the cliff. Panic ran amok and the Dwarves began to struggle, only loosening the tree from the ground and causing the tree the dip further.

Mareke saw one of the Dwarves get up on the trunk and unsheathe his sword. He walk towards the pale Orc and when he reached solid ground, the Dwarf flew at the Orc to no avail. With one swing of his mace-hand, the Orc knocked him to the ground. From there, Mareke could see nothing of what happened. Her hands slipped on the bark of the tree, the canvas gloves she wore burned against her hand as her grip strengthened. She looked down, terrified. As she fell, she looked at the cliff top which seemed so far away and wished that she had never taken her feet off of the ground. A weight lifted from her head as her fitted helm came loose and toppled from her head, revealing cloth that wrapped about her head.

Closing her eyes, Mareke felt the pressure of the air and imagined her home, the red sand that filled every cranny of her family's wooden house, the pungent scent of her mother cooking up a new concoction of beans and roots. She felt the warm, searing wind of home as it lifted her up and she felt the cooling of the wind as it slowed and dropped her to the ground of the Western forests.

Mareke opened her eyes and found that she faced a sun bleeding red into the icy blue of the morning. She sat up and observed, bewildered, the Dwarf who had fought the Orc, embracing the short creature with gratitude and the possessiveness of brotherhood. Mareke peered behind her to the grey Man who stood behind her. He smiled kindly at the group and when he noticed my curious view, he spoke in a slow and assured voice, "Our guest is awake."

Fourteen pairs of eyes turned sharply towards Mareke's position.

"You might very well have saved us, miss...?" The air was left open for her to speak but she hesitated. "Well?"

"Mareke of Rhûn." The company tensed and hands went to the handles of axes and swords. Mareke swiftly grasped her double scimitar and pulled herself into a crouch, away from the Man. Her thin almond shaped eyes opened as she regarded the company with wariness and alertness. Though it was just a hiss, Mareke heard a Dwarf call, "_Easterling_!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Now, now. Let us not be hasty," spoke the voice of the Man.

"But Gandalf, she is an Easterling. They are not to be trusted I tell you," declared a young Dwarf with hair cut straight across his forhead. His round eyes were wide in fear for he had heard terrible stories of the Easterlings. All save a few worshipped the nefarious Morgoth whom they knew as the Strong Man. They had fought with an uncanny vigour against the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth and especially hated the Men of Gondor who had done them some ill in ages long past and although the Easterlings could remember not the assumed foul deed, they retained the vengeance of old.

"And how would you know if I am to be trusted?" intoned Mareke in a thick accent that trilled and twisted the words into a harmony, softening the words. "You know not the reason why I have come to these lands and you have not spoken to me for but a minute and you already call me enemy and savage." The Dwarves seemed to expand in size, clearly angered by the harsh words that dishonoured their names. One Dwarf began to approach her but she hissed and deepened her crouch. He stopped and when he stood still, his hand on the hilt of a sword, he looked regal, a dark lion in the North.

"Ori called you no such thing," he asserted.

"Perhaps he spoke no words that would injure me so but it is apparent on your faces and in your tone. You revile me." The young Dwarf had at least some decency to look ashamed of his judgements. "Though, you have every right to revile me and my kind. My people have committed atrocious acts upon the Free Peoples, let there be no mistake. Let that not cloud your minds, Dwarves."

"This one has spirit and quite the tongue. Tell me young Easterling, how did you come by such fine skill at the Common Tongue in the East? I should very much like to know."

"Years before my knowledge and the knowledge of my grandmother, two Men came to the dunes of Rhûn. Our history details these Men as wearers of blue cloaks and speakers of a foreign tongue yet unfamiliar to my people. They wielded a power greater than that of our ancestors. It is told that these sorcerers came upon our tribe and after a great battle, slew all who followed the Strong Man. Following the slaughter, they were weak and needed assistance in sustaining their lives. In return for our assistance, they taught us their language in good faith that those who would follow the Voice would be taught to treasure the light that the Voice sang into our world," Mareke relaxed a bit in her crouch, bringing her hand from the hilt of her weapon to the ground. She cocked her head to her right in order to see the grey robes of the Man to her left.

"These Men, do you perchance know of their names?" Curiosity had lit up the Man's droopy eyes so that they twinkled in the early morning sun.

"They called themselves Morinehtar and Rómestámo. I know not where they be today for it was long ago that they visited my tribe and we have had many Elders since that time."

"Are they the blue wizards that you told us about, Gandalf?" inquired the Man child in a high pitched, squeaking voice.

"I do believe so, Bilbo. Thank you, Mareke for I had well forgotten their struggle in the East." Gandalf turned to the company of Dwarves and reassured them that she posed no threat to them.

"And how would you know that," spoke the gravelly voice of the lion-esque Dwarf.

"Thorin, she follows the Voice whom we call Eru or Ilúvatar. She is one of the few allies that we may expect from the East in these darkening times," Gandalf answered gravely. Now, it is time that we head off. Durin's Day fast approaches and we will undoubtedly encounter trouble along the way. Gwaihir, can you help us onwards to the Carrock?"

The eagle in question, gargantuan in comparison to the Dwarves and a mottled golden, answered with a series of shuffling movements and wing flexes.

"Thank you, Lord of the Sky. Come along, quickly now. Onto the eagles, all of you. Yes, you too Mareke."

"I must reach Rivendell."

"You shall reach it all in good time, hop on now."

"But, sir. I have a warning that I must give to the Elves who reside there and I must speak to a sorcerer named Mithrandir." At the mention of that name, Gandalf snapped his head towards Mareke.

"How do you know that name?" The question was so low on his voice that I could barely hear it spoken.

"I have glimpsed the future. There is an eye, great and ringed with flame and in the fortress of the woods, where a sheathed sword will do no good, Orcs and Spiders breed in the foul dark."

"How much of this future have you seen?"

"Enough to know that gold does not glitter and the sword will be remade."


End file.
